Dean knocks once and opens the door a little, only enough for him to stick his head through. At first sight, Cas is sitting at the edge of the bed, holding his phone. At second, he's smiling.
"Dean," Cas looks up, smile broadening. He's so beautiful. "Would you like to come —"
"Nah," Dean grins back. "Not right now. Heading to bed." He leans his head against the doorframe, and winks. "Kind of a long day."
It was Dean's birthday.
And the rest of the Winchesters had planned the hell out of it.
There'd been Winchester Supreme breakfasts (for everyone, which yes, meant that Sam had had a tiny aneurysm) a midday Scooby Doo marathon (venue: the Deancave) a party in the evening with balloons and actual birthday pie, and karaoke after dinner. Jack had gotten him one of those 3-in-1 boxed board games (Monopoly was the only thing on the cover he recognized), Sam and Eileen, a leather journal because "you can finally start writing your own story, chuck-free," and socks, and Cas had apparently been responsible for the (friggin' awesome) pie, and had then surprised even the other three with a ridiculously soft, green cardigan during gift giving.
Dean had not just gotten to spend time with all of his family — and he's talking Jody, Donna, the girls, Garth, Charlie, everyone — but actually gotten to see all of them hang out after so long, and be happy, and celebrate, under the same roof — it'd been so perfect, it feels like a dream even in hindsight.
There's really no way to describe it except as one of the best days of his life.
"I believe it was." Cas says, eyes twinkling. His eyes flit back to his phone, and Dean's follow — his breath hitching in his chest when he sees a picture of him in the pink, polka dotted birthday hat. (Garth's idea, though really, everyone's.)
Cas had been —
He'd been smiling at Dean.
"Yeah." Dean feels a little winded. "Awesome, though."
"Goodnight, Dean." Cas looks up again, wearing the same, happy smile. It does things to Dean, really.
Makes him feel the same kind of way Claire and Donna (and later, upon Claire's insistence and everyone else's cheering, Kaia) partnering up to sing a way too dramatic cover of Jingle Bells at him (in January) did. Or Eileen and Sam Night-Moves-ing him, giggly together on 'stage' in a way they'd definitely deny having been the next morning. It was the kind of feeling you get when you're really happy, and there's (finally, finally) no reasons not to be.
And all of it, reconjured by a single gummy smile.
It's sometimes kind of staggering how stupidly in love he is.
"'Night, Cas." Dean manages, a floaty feeling in his gut, and he closes the door. He stays right there, though, hands clenched into fists and breathing slow.
His head's a whirlwind of feelings, insides fluttering like they decided to pick up from the example of the butterflies that at this point, he's stopped trying to control around Cas.
It's like somehow, suddenly, he's been cut loose. All these years, all the repression — all the not-yet's, and he-can't's — all of it, it feels like it's fading. Cas makes him happy. Cas smiles at awful pictures of Dean, and then smiles up at the real Dean like he doesn't even have to hide it anymore (then why does Dean?) and bakes him pie, and saves his life, and buys him sweaters that match his eyes and proceeds to point it out — and makes him happier than he's ever been.
Cas is family, and Cas is home. And he's the love of Dean's life, and maybe he doesn't have to keep it in anymore — because he sure as hell can't.
Like he's floating on a cloud, and the chains binding him are rendered needless, and fall to the ground, it suddenly hits Dean.
Dean Winchester's free.
The enormity of it sinks, or tries to, as he licks his lips. Force of habit. There's still the faintest taste of sugar. And maybe he's just really drunk and can't tell, but there's really nothing holding him back anymore, is there?
(And it is his birthday, after all.)
Before he can second-guess himself — which usually happens right about now — he barges through the door again.
Cas is standing now, and his eyes widen when Dean scales the distance between them in a couple of fast, desperate steps. Puts a hand on his hip, the other cupping his face.
Tilts it up, and Dean's thumb trembles dangerously close to the corner of Cas's mouth.
What is he scared of?
It's Cas.
His voice is barely a whisper.
"Can I —"
Cas jerks his head in a stilted nod, and Dean closes the gap between the in a single movement, tilting his head the other way. Their lips meet, Dean's moist and Cas's soft, and Cas leans into it — leans into Dean, and oh, it's perfect — and Dean's other hand leaves Cas's waist to come up until he's holding Cas's face in both his hands, ignoring the tears pricking his eyes, as he squeezes his eyes closed and lets it fall, and kissing Cas harder.
It's years and years of buildup, but everything's worth it for the devastated sound Cas lets out when Dean pulls back, wide-eyed and gasping for breath, and Cas inadvertently chasing his lips even further into his personal space.
It's always been Cas.
"Dean." Cas breathes, chest heaving.
Only now does Dean notice his hands on Dean's waist, when a ghost of a touch sends a shiver up his spine.
He just kissed Cas.
"Hey, Cas." Dean bites his bottom lip, voice as shaken as his knees feel. Cas leans up a little, and Dean closes his eyes again when their foreheads touch. He can feel their breaths mingling, but it's the closeness that gets him. "It's my birthday today." He adds, something almost coy in his tone, for the sake of saying something, 'cause how can he not breathlessly ramble the silence away?
(Dean still can't believe he just kissed him, but hell, is he glad he did.)
"I love you." Cas returns.
"I'm pretty sure the saying goes, happy birthday." Dean tells him with a shit-eating grin, hooking his arms around Cas's neck. He's half expecting an eyeroll, more probably that patent reserved-for-Dean frown, but what he gets is another kiss. Less fleeting, less chaste.
Dean all but melts.
Always and forever, Cas.
"So be it." Cas mutters, looking up at Dean with a smile dancing in his eyes, but lips pursed. And it's about to be midnight again, so it's the last wish of Dean's entire forty second birthday when Cas says it.
Sharing the fan vid I made of Rowena from Supernatural. I think Killer Queen is a great song for her :) @brieflymaximumprincess @blakechaos08 @angel-e-v-a
this year, dean gets his first birthday card since 1992 (when sam turned nine). it's from jack — that much is obvious because it sort of apparates on the dining table when he's on his second slice of birthday pie (courtesy of cas and sam, bless their chickflick-saturated souls) in a little bit of a godly way. but the card in itself would also have been enough to trace back to its maker. 'happy birthday dean', in sentence case, and yellow sketchpen on the front page. inside, there's a drawing that is almost certainly him, driving the impala, hand rested on shotgun's seat. and he's driving towards a giant banner that says 'dean's happy birthday party' and a lot of stick figures. why he gets the privilege of non-stick limbs can only be explained by birthday privileges, he guesses. but there's one stick figure particularly tall, and one in a brown box that's probably supposed to be a trenchcoat, and one that's distinctly smaller than those two, but stood between them, with his stick-arms spread. that one's jack, if dean knows anything about the kid at all. and when he flips to the last page, there's an 'i love you' on an (artistically accurate) grilled cheese, one of jack's best works yet, and yes, that is the reason dean's sniffling. he's proud, is all. at the bottom of the last page are two hearts, individually housing the words 'from' and 'jack', and dean swallows, maybe just a little overwhelmed. sam notices it first because cas is on smite-stare at the coffeemaker duty, and realizes what's up when he scans the item in dean's hand. "you okay?" he mouths, smile small but happy, in complete contrast to cas's concentrated frown at the lazy machine, either trusting in dean's claims that those lessen the damn thing's inefficiency, or willing to go with it because he's a friggin' sap like that, and dean thinks his heart might just burst with how much he loves, and is grateful for his family. "yeah." he whispers back, blinking fast, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. "yeah, i really am."
for @starrynightdeancas' milestone celebration! congratulations <3 and happy beachday, dean winchester.
Dean's the one who laces their fingers together, but it's okay because Cas lifts their entwined hands and kisses Dean's knuckles right after.
"I love you." Cas tells him, soft.
His cheeks burn.
(Sunscreen isn't very effective against unprompted adoration, is it?)
Dean squeezes Cas's hand, eyes cast down to contain a shy smile. There's a shallow, retreating wave under his feet — the sun setting after a glorious, long day. Sand between his toes. And the evening breeze tingles at the back of his neck, reminding him of mornings when he gets to wake up to Cas wrapped around him, his breath warm (and only a little ticklish) down Dean's tshirt.
No reason to hold back anymore, he tells himself, and lets himself smile.
"You look happy." Cas says after a beat. There's a smile in his voice as well.
"Well, you know me." Dean throws back, turning to meet Cas's eyes, and perhaps taking a beat to marvel at them. It never gets old. Maybe because he still can't believe he gets this. Walking on the beach with the love of his life, content with the knowledge that his family is safe — Sam and Eileen are a little further in the water, taking their first surf class (nerds) and Jack is collecting seashells with Miracle (Dean keeps seeing them occasionally, and then they disappear in the crowd again) — he still can't believe they made it.
"Huh?"
Dean grins. "I'm Dean Winchester, babe. I'm an Aquarius." The words come back as easy as an old habit. "I like sunsets, long walks on the beach, and Hawaiian-shirt-wearing angels of the lord."
"I still don't understand why I have to wear this." Cas remarks mildly. "Sam insisted rather peculiarly that I must."
"That's 'cause sometimes he pays attention." Dean shrugs, leaning in to kiss Cas's cheek, because he can, and because it's proved on occasion to be an effective distraction against a lengthy dismantling of the why's and how's of every element of their now-human lives.
Cas almost certainly gets he's being dismissed, in sorts, but he's clearly willing to go with it because he meets Dean's lips with his own in an easy, lingering kiss.
Then, they resume walking. And maybe Dean swings their hands a little more — if nothing, then for the delightful laugh Cas lets out when he does it.
Maybe, he's happy.
And maybe, sometimes, that makes all the difference.
happy birthday, @irrlicht-ghostfront ❤️ i love you, and i'm judging you for this being your prompt, but i love you some more, so here <33 (warnings: car accident) [NO MCD]
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
Blink and a miss — accident — wrecked car, and fleeting on the painful side of barely conscious in a pool of his own blood. There was too much of it anyway. Castiel felt dizzy more than he felt the pain as time, almost tangibly, passed on.
There's no way he was going to live.
(It was supposed to end old — fingers crossed for painless. Featuring inevitably beeping monitors, and time to come up with last words. A goodbye to his family.
Not that he had much of one right now — he isn't sure if he can call Dean's family his, yet; Dean seems to insist on it but then he's always been a pioneer in giving Castiel more than he could ever deserve, starting with his own heart, so Castiel can't tell — but he'd finally started to have intentions to, in the future.
A dog, for Dean.
Children.
Intentions to beg his brother to come back, and not give up until he'd gotten his forgiveness and his only remaining family back. But that — well, it was a different alley than Castiel's thoughts swarmed to right now. And swarm they did, his head throbbing, and life thudding at its gates.
Castiel had also intended to marry Dean, misty-eyed and denying it. Intended to figure out flower arrangements, and guest seating. Intended to kiss him at the end of the aisle, with his hands cupping Dean's face, and Dean's around his waist.
Then, move out from their shared apartment into a house.
Yellow wallpapered bedroom.
Treasure, and keep Dean happy forever.
Fuck.)
His breathing is still ragged, and his head feels too empty, but the heaving has lessened. Probably the blood loss. Less pain, more haze. And the resultant thoughtlessness is perhaps the only thing that sparks the courage in him to do what he does next.
Castiel picks up his phone.
(A struggle, but he's determined.)
If he's dying, and he'll never get to live the life he'd finally started to dream of — never have a life to share with Dean, never get to see Dean again, then he'll take what he can get.
He's allowed this, he tells himself. Allowed to be selfish, one last time.
He's on his deathbed after all.
It's outstandingly painful to bend his neck enough to see he's picked the right number — but the mere idea of accidentally calling an acquaintance at a time like this brings a tensed sliver of life into his muscles, and straining, he looks. Right enough, he's got 'Dean :)' on the screen.
Pressing dial, he lets his head fall back on the seat, wincing again. Maybe that'll relent the floatiness, if his body circulates some goddamn blood into his brain — because he needs this.
He's dying, but he needs this. One last time, he needs Dean.
A thumb swipes the familiarly placed 'on speaker' button — he can't bring the phone to his ear right now. He's going to have to risk Dean hearing the still crackling ruins of the poor engine, strewn across the wreck in smoldering pieces.
He must make quite a sight, he thinks, waiting for the call to go through. Man found in car wreckage, trapped by the door, dead within —
"Cas?"
Dean's voice cuts through Castiel's morbid mental news report, and almost reflexively, he closes his eyes. There's a tangible relief in his head when he does it, and god, Castiel must've been doing worse than he's convinced himself he is.
Dean sounds beautiful as always, and so familiar its like home.
It's the last time he ever gets to have this.
"Hello, Dean." Maybe he manages to not sound weird, or Dean's just not listening for clues. The loud racket behind him, at Bobby (and Dean's) automobile shop, helps as well.
"Hey." There's a smile in his voice now. Fuck. He's smiling. He's smiling, and he's smiling at Cas, and it's the last time Castiel ever gets to hear it.
He loses himself trying to remember the last time he saw Dean smile — earlier this morning, kissing him goodbye before he left — no, down from their balcony, accompanied by a gleeful wave because Dean's shift started a couple hours after Cas's day in the office did — no, when Castiel checked the time, and the Dean on his lockscreen grinned up at him — and he doesn't realize he's fallen silent until Dean's speaking again.
"Babe, you okay?"
There's a tinge of worry. Only a smidge, and it still hurts. The last time Castiel hears Dean can't be laced with anything bad. And it can't be Castiel's fault.
There's a pause. "Cas, what's up?"
Castiel doesn't know what to say so he tries to hold on to the phone tighter, his throat fluttering as a tear rolls down his face.
"Wait," The worry dissipates, apology slipping in. "Am I forgetting something? Did we make plans for lunch, 'cause Bobby and —"
"N-no." Cas struggles, and it's getting harder to not pant. He sounds too breathy anyway. "We don't. Didn't."
He forces a smile into his voice while saying it. As if it doesn't break him that he'll never get to see Dean again. But he needs to smile, doesn't he? One last time. Just for Dean.
"Well, do you want to?" Dean sounds cheerful. Normal.
Perfect.
Castiel doesn't want to die.
"Not, today." He half-heaves, and another tear rolls down his face.
Not today.
(If he'd known, he'd have stared to his heart's fill this morning. Kissed him an hour longer. Held him in his sleep. Oh, if he had had any foresight at all.)
"Dickface-atron keeping ya busy?"
Castiel lets the air stuck in his chest out, and it probably makes up for a small chuckle. He doesn't want to lie, he just won't agree.
"Figures."
"Sorry." Castiel tells him, meaning it entirely.
"Nah, s'good. I love you." Dean adds, clearly smiling wider, because they've only recently added that to their vernacular instead of the pedestal it'd been on for the first eight months of their friendship turning into a relationship. Somehow, it feels grander though — or, that might also be because it's the last time Castiel ever gets to hear Dean say it to him.
Oh, he loves him so much.
(He doesn't want to die.)
"And I have my packed lunch anyway." Dean continues, filling the gap thankfully. Machines blare in his background and he braves on like a man used to not being able to hear his own words due to the racket. Castiel is grateful for it. He hangs onto every word, drinks it in. Makes himself hold on. "Pretty sure you'd kick me to the curb if I let a PBJ go to waste."
"Jelly?" Cas smiles, when he wants to sob. He's certain he sounds fainter too, he feels fainter, and it's a miracle it doesn't show.
The tears well up in his chest, for possibly the rest of time. Dead men don't cry, and Castiel can't.
(Can't be long now, can it?)
"Jelly." Dean confirms. "It's the curse of paying attention when you rant about jam, you know." He snickers. "I used to be normal."
"Yes, I'm very lucky."
Dean chuckles, and Castiel sighs.
He's yearned for Dean to be happy, tried to make him smile, longed to see him laugh, for so, so long it feels like a part of him now. And now, it goes back to Dean, without him.
Somebody else'll make him smile, somebody else will wake him up with a kiss on his temple, and somebody else will love Dean for exactly who he is because it's Dean, and there was never someone who deserved it more — so of course somebody will.
But it will never be him again.)
An untethered broken sound escapes his throat, and Cas winces, faking a cough with it.
That makes the blood gush.
"Oh, also — wait. Just a second." He interrupts himself, and probably covers the speaker with his palm before yelling blurrily to someone near him.
(Or perhaps it's not supposed to be blurry. Castiel wouldn't know. He can hardly make out his own breathing. It's a feat that he can make out the conversation, even if most of it is instinct memory, and all he's doing is holding onto Dean for as long as he can.
Somehow, it feels like he's been doing so forever. But the time left, had never been so little.)
When Dean returns, he sounds apologetically busy.
"Dude, that dick who yelled at Ash, remember? He's back. Garth went this time, 'cause douchebag brought a Sedan."
Castiel swallows again, and vaguely registers that it tastes like metal. Almost like there's blood mixed with saliva.
There's another morbid thought. What, in this wreck, is finally going to kill him?
"I should probably check on him. Garth sorta wears on you."
"Of course." He croaks, and slips — fuck, he slips — but for once, thank god for oversensitive customers and boyfriends with likeable personalities, because Dean's conversing off the phone again, his hand on the speaker.
"I'll call you back, babe." Dean comes back to add in a rush, and Cas sucks in a painful breath, slowly beginning to feel like the only thing keeping him conscious any more is the sensation of air in his lungs, in his mouth, in the back of his throat. "Still have to ask what you even called about, you know. Or maybe if you just missed me." He beams, he obviously beams, and Cas stifles a groan.
"I do." He wheezes. "I —"
"Me too." Dean returns, flirty, and Cas goes to add to it — because he has to, because he's not going to make it, he's not going to be able to hold on until Dean returns, and he has to — but there's a click.
Castiel stares at the screen, devastated.
(Or tries to, anyway.)
"I love you," He cries out, aware that the line's cut, but needing to hear himself say it anyway. Plus, his head feels too numb to keep words inside anymore. It's less a prison of thoughts, and more a canyon of loss.
More tears fall.
His heart is beating faster than it ever has.
"I love —" His voice trembles, tries again, and fails. His throat refuses to comply with the thousands of things there remain to be said, and the words slowly fade, neglected.
In more ways than one, it's like being administered anaesthesia before a surgery — Castiel was operated on for tonsils at age eleven, and he remembers it still — and it finally sinking in, and knocking you out, as the doctor says to count to ten, and you hardly graze six.
His hands clutch the phone tighter, neck rendering him incapable of looking anymore, so he has no idea what his thumbs are trying to type — but it doesn't matter, not really, because this is it. Completely alone, young, and desperately in love with Dean Winchester, Castiel closes his eyes for the very last time.
And everything fades to black.
*
When they find him, it's been at least four hours.
It's night.
The uniformed official stuck with the responsibility of calling the next of kin, Victor Henriksen, fishes out the wallet as the paramedics carry him into the ambulance and attach him to IV immediately, and steps away to dial his emergency contact with a crinkled brow of sympathy.
And as he waits for the guy, a Dean Winchester, to pick up, he can't help but notice that his number is exactly the same as the one the last text almost sent from the victim's phone had been typed to — clutched in his hand, an unnerving, 'I love'.
And well, he isn't particularly into romcoms, but he hopes the poor guy gets a chance to finish his sentence.
He was in pretty bad condition, Henriksen recalls, and the bloodloss had knocked him out for several hours, but he looked twenty five at most, more importantly healthy, and — he looks at the wallet again, and the picture of two men (one of them, the victim) smiling at the camera with their hands around each other — most importantly, seemed to have reasons to fight for.
(Plus, he'd been the one to call the accident in himself — albeit four hours after it happened, but Henriksen figured he'd been passed out for that long — so he had to want to live, right?)
"Hello. Dean Winchester, who's this?"
"Hello, sir, I'm Officer Henriksen, and I have you listed as Mr Castiel Novak's emergency..."
*
"You dick."
Castiel coughs, and gives up on squinting against the bright light. It's a LED. Like in hospitals.
"Jesus, Cas. You complete asshole, you —"
Castiel opens his eyes a sliver again. The walls do resemble a hospital. Plain, white tiled. Way too many AC vents. Is that something on his hand?
"So you'll open your goddamn eyes, and not even fucking look at me."
There's IV's on both his hands. And something stiff around his neck. Almost like a collar, but thicker. And when he breathes, his ribs start like they might hurt — but the pain is numbed as it registers. He must be running really high on painkillers; they never really worked for him.
"Fine. You don't gotta look at me." A pause. Then, more shaky. "I was so scared, Cas. So fucking terrified. They said they weren't sure, said it may be too late, and you were dying. And then they tell me the crash happened at three, and I feel like I'm going to have a fucking stroke."
His vision slowly unblurs, feeling returning to his fingers. He tries to fold them, and winces at the strain.
Immediately, there's a hand on his arm.
"Stop moving, dumbass. I'm going to kill you for this, you know. I am, but I need you to be okay first."
The words don't register, but the voice does.
(He sounds beautiful as always, and so familiar it's like home.)
"Hell, I just need you, Cas. Period. I need your ridiculous, stupid ass — and I need you to look at me when I'm begging you to be okay, and I need you to stay, with me, forever, and not call me first when you need a goddamn ambulance, you dumbass —"
"Hello, Dean." Castiel interrupts, a hoarse whisper, and he thinks he hears a sob from the general direction of the love of his life.
(He really can't move his neck — he's got to tell Dean that at some point if he's not understood already. It's the cast.)
"Oh, thank god." Dean cries, the words muffled by either him burying his face in his sleeve, or the lifesaving medications Castiel is alive on account of, but it's okay, right? Dean's here — and he's okay. It's fine.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm still going to kill you for this."
"Well, I'd deserve that." Castiel tries to joke, and almost pulls it off, except for the part where he can't see Dean's reaction until the latter lets out another broken sob, and grabs his hand. Castiel freezes, trying to squeeze back, tears welling up again. "I'm really sorry, Dean." Then, after a beat. "I'm going to make this up to you."
It feels like a strange thing to say, but it's exactly what he means.
"Yeah, you are. Although it can't stop my revenge being not texting you when I have a heart attack in aisle three when I'm eighty and you're buying eggs, but okay."
If Castiel could, he would've shaken his head at that.
(But at least, and this is what really matters — they made it. He's alive. He — he gets this.)
"I love you, you son of a bitch."
Castiel smiles slowly, a tear landing on his pillow. "I love you too."
